


His Last Vow

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: #Always1895, Angst, Johnlock Roulette, Less tag More pain, Love Confessions, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Prompt Fic, a bit of case fic, minor character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 18:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14836988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: Sherlock tugged John’s still body closer to him, his hands cradling John’s limp head to his chest, as the sky cried with him.





	His Last Vow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EchoSilverWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/gifts), [GizmoTrinket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/gifts), [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> The plot prompt came from @EchoSilverWolf, as far as my memory gap failed to consume. So for Echo, this one's for you, thank you for saying that you'll read an MCD if I wrote it with your prompt. XD
> 
> For @GizmoTrinket for being a partner in crime on Twitter. Let's kill some more.
> 
> And for @FinAmour, for the hard work she'd been giving for all of her colleagues out there. The world is blessed to have you.

Sherlock couldn’t remember anything.  
But he remembered feeling everything.

It seemed time had slowed down for Sherlock to feel, something he despised ever since. But his mind remained alert from his surroundings. He recognized the wailing of police car sirens. The screeching of their tires to a halt. Doors opening and closing—hurried sound of footsteps coming from the dirty road. The rusty gate creaking from forced entry.  
Sherlock’s mind palace worked with too much speed. Cataloguing every sound at once. But still he searched for those familiar sounds that he seemed to get used to the most. John’s heartbeat. John’s breathing. John’s pulse—when a tug on his arm brought him back from reverie he became aware of himself slumped on the muddy road. The downpour of rain soaking on his shirt. The cold seeping through his bones. And of a body losing its warmth, a head lying on his lap cradled by his hand. He looked down on his lap where he saw the still body of John draped with his coat—eyes firmly closed and now cold. And then he became aware of someone carefully and slowly removing John’s body from his arms. Someone whispering to him, arms wrapped on his underarm, hoisting him up. His legs felt wobbly, he's been half-dragged, half-walked by this someone. He then saw John’s body being laid on a stretcher, his coat that was draped over John was left on the side of the road. Then John was gone, carried inside the ambulance that drove off followed by the police cars. Sherlock’s gaze fell on his coat and he tried releasing himself from the grip of someone holding him. 

“Sherlock.” He heard a firm voice called on his name that he almost couldn’t recognized but at moments like this he only knew one who would trouble himself from coming. Sherlock straightened his back as he acknowledge the presence of the person behind him.

“I am well, Mycroft.” He heard himself say, turning his back from his older brother, before adding, “I need to get my coat and then I'll have to be with John. I’ll follow you on your car.”  
“Really, brother mine.” Mycroft chided. “It surprises me that you could still think of your coat.”  
“Get lost, Mycroft.” said Sherlock cutting his brother off. “If you really want to help out here you should—“He swallowed painfully, and clearing his throat he continued, ” You should get over to the hospital or to where they had taken John—the s-service..” He stammers.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and choked back a sob as John’s bright smile flashed into his memory, “I need to be alone—now, leave me be.” He said with finality on his tone.  
In the corner of his eyes, he saw Mycroft’s hand raised, hovering over his shoulder, as if attempting to console him, but dropping it otherwise.  
His brother sighed, “As you wish.” Adding, “I’ll send Miss Hooper.” The soft footsteps of his brother echoed through the night with the words, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” Then his brother was gone.

######

Sherlock crossed the other side of the road and halted on the coat by his feet. Slowly, he kneeled down, reaching out for the coat. He sat on the gutter and holding the fabric close to his chest. The faint smell of John comforting him.  
What have gone wrong? Sherlock was unaware. And he hates not knowing. And so he breathed in and out closing his eyes drifting into his mind palace—as he cradled his bloodied coat on his chest with John’s death playing on his mind over and over again.

**_|—FLASHBACK—|_ **

Earlier at 9AM, a client in his forty’s, introducing himself as Gustave Erinshire graced the receiving room of 221B. John had gone to work on the clinic so Sherlock was the only one who entertained the client. According to his client, he was expecting a shipment of fabrics from Asia on the wee hours of the morning, yesterday. But instead, he received a shipment of contrabands and illegally documented ammunitions with his name as the consignee. Thus, setting the police on his trail. Erinshire wanted to prove his innocence by contacting the sender of the shipments but by doing so, he stated that he’s now receiving death threats from them. Erinshire also informed him, that two other shipments of illegal ammunition, will arrive that evening but the time is still unknown. The contacts from Asia told Erinshire that if he calls for help or if he refuses to receive and sign the shipments, he’d be shot on the head from wherever he’s standing. Fearing for his life, that’s what made him contact the famous detective. Sherlock feeling ‘The Game is On’, accepted the case. And then the man left 221B in a bright mood. Unbeknownst to his client, Sherlock was deducing him the whole time, and somehow Sherlock managed to sense danger. Cheerfully, he contacted John, sent him the details and their plan via text and ordered for Lestrade and his men to be alerted at all cost if everything goes south.  


######

The warehouse screamed of filth. It was an old dilapidated building by the pier of South Milton Bay. The place proving to be giving up any second—broken windows, unhinged doors. A huge rusting metal gate embraced by ten feet wall, sprayed with graffiti’s. Mixed with the smell of dirt, oil, grease and fishes. Whatever you’ll find inside a local pier. A good two hours in a cab from London. That’s where Sherlock found himself. The warehouse was never mentioned by his client but of a source from his homeless network with the tip of a shipment arriving at midnight loaded with fabric. So as his client and suspect stated, as what he deduced. Erinshire whose real name is Dmitriv Pakovia. A Russian leader of an ammunition smuggling group hiding in London, hunted by the NSY but always slithering off their grips. Imbeciles. Glancing at his wristwatch, it was almost midnight. But he’s also bored. Suddenly, a screeching car from the back of the warehouse made him turn. He searched for John, where he assigned him on that place almost missing his friend’s outline from the moonlight. John seemed to feel the weight that someone’s watching him, he turned to look at Sherlock’s direction. With a thumb raised at him, he watched as John walked with caution towards the back of the warehouse. In which Sherlock cursed, inwardly and trudged the steps down to the back door to follow John. Damn, his friend for being such the hero. He texted Lestrade knowing John would throw a fit if he didn’t. But to his annoyance, NSY informed him that the DI was excused for the matter.

And then it happened—like a flash of lightning. The muted sound of guns armed with silencers welcomed him as he opened the back door. Sherlock hearing John calling his name telling him to duck. Then came the sound of John’s handgun the only noise in the air. The clattering of dustbins and cardboard boxes as if someone has been thrown at them. Then the continuous shots—then the smell of gun powder. Bodies hitting the ground—and finally, the gunshots dying out. Sherlock called out to John in panic—for two frightening minutes no one answered—and then he was being slammed by someone on the back door—a hand grabbed him on his nape and kissing him hard on the lips he almost passed out. It was John. John was kissing him. Sherlock’s thoughts came to a halt before he gave in to the kiss, returning the sensation in a feverish manner. Tugging at John, as he deepened their kiss, whoever moaned neither of them cared—Sherlock was just over the moon as he let John worship his lips and as his friend started trailing wet kisses on his neck. After a good snog, both needing to breathe, they parted and John was just there holding him in his strong arms, whispering words of worry—that he thought Sherlock was shot, Sherlock was down on the ground, or was caught by the goons. And John just held him there. Sherlock slid himself to the door to level at John’s height as he snuggled on John’s neck—his warmth a reassurance of safety and finally, finally—Sherlock felt loved. He felt John’s lips curved into a smile as he was kissed at the top of his ruffled hair. And then, there, as the moonlight faded behind the night clouds, a rumbling of thunder boomed through the air, echoed by a deafening sound of a gunshot, a thud of something metal and heavy hitting the ground, matched with a hurrying sound of footsteps—And the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was to breathe—as John Watson fell into his arms.

######

It has been the longest five minutes of Sherlock’s life.

”John!”

 _One minute and thirty seconds: headshot, upper back of the skull, critical, blood overflowing, no exit wound._  
A cough and a handful of blood escaped John’s mouth, trickling to his shoulder. He slumped on the muddy road and scooting John’s body carefully into his lap, cradling John’s head by a hand. He feels the blood continuously flowing from the open wound.

“John… John...”

 _Two minutes and fifteen seconds: The body merely responsive, eyes closed, sweating on the spine and forehead, heartbeat slowing down._  
Sherlock snapped a curse. “John. Stay with me.” He removes his coat and frantically drapes it on John’s body as he took John’s pulse.

_Three minutes: eyes flickering, consciousness slipping in and out, pulse at sixty._

“No! John Watson! Don’t you dare—“He shouted, tears brimming on his eyes.

_Three minutes and thirty seconds: convulsing, slowing heartbeat, pulse… pulse at forty._

His eyes blurring, “John, please… I’ve never begged in my life. But please—“ 

Suddenly he felt a hand gripped one of his. 

“Not him. Not…yet.” He murmured while taking John’s hand, the one gripping his, on his lips. 

Sherlock then looked up at the night sky, “The stars John, I can’t see them. Unlike that night, when we first looked up at it together.” His voice is failing him and tears flowed from his eyes.

And then he’s moving, searching the pocket of his coat—he took his phone out, hitting number one on his speed dial without looking. When the line connects, he switches it to loudspeaker, and then he shouts, “Somebody get me an ambulance! Five minutes sharp!”

######

 _Four minutes and fifty-seconds:_ the hand of John that was holding his, gripped him firmly. Sherlock leaned down to John’s forehead. He closed his eyes and listened painfully as John’s breathing slowed every second, he knew John wouldn’t make it. So he held John’s face softly between his hands, saying the words—he never knew in his life, that he would say, _“I love you, John Watson.”_ And as the words flowed, as they escaped his mouth, flowing like the tears from his eyes—Sherlock felt an indescribable pain.  
Sherlock watched as John’s eyes now fading its light turned to look at him for the last time—his mouth moved a little, but Sherlock heard him clear as the summer sky— ** _I love you, always.._**

 _Four minutes and fifty five seconds: John’s eyes closing slowly._  
And as the night wind, crisp and cold blew on Sherlock’s face—it carried away the soft whisper of his name—

 _Five minutes: Heartbeat – gone, Pulse – none._  
Sherlock tugged John’s still body closer to him, his hands cradling John’s limp head to his chest, as the sky cried with him.

**Time of death: 01:29 AM**

######

Sherlock was ushered off the police car to a new place with blinding lights—white, yellow, red. The smell of disinfectant filling his nose. His body felt like he took a swim from Thames. His mind though alert, still a blur. He was given fresh clothes and a new coat, he obligingly changed with it. He was then guided by a nurse to another room—he heard hushed whispers trying to calm his senses—and then soft hands touching his forehead. Soft hands brushing the curls on his forehead. Followed by the familiar texture of cotton swab on the skin of his wounds. And that familiar gesture, made him think of the person who attends to him when he’s injured on a case. The hands that tugged on his coat sleeve when he’s about to tackle the criminal all by himself. The hands that once enveloped his and… Those soft small hands that belong to John.

_John._

Slowly, Sherlock looked up to the figure in a white lab coat in front of him. Anticipating, hoping—that somehow, the blurry truth on the back of his mind remains there. And then suddenly his eyes were covered by a hand. And in that moment he knew, it wasn’t John. That the reality must be accepted. And be forced into his mind. He just lost John Watson. John Watson who had kissed him, the memory of John’s warm lips pressed against his, fresh as his wounds in his memory. He heard a small sob escape from someone, shaking him out of his reverie and the hand covering his eyes weakens and eventually fell off. Opening his eyes, he was met with the saddest amber eyes he had ever seen. It was Molly’s. Reaching out, he wrapped his hands on Molly’s as she looked at him.  
“I’m so sorry, S-Sherlock…” He heard her say, a mouthful sob slurring her words.  
Sherlock never knew real pain, but if it was as good as dying, he would’ve chosen the latter.  
“Where is he, Molly?” He asked softly.  
Molly blinked away the tears from her eyes. “A p-private room. Your brother arranged.. Second floor.” She said.  
Sherlock squeezed Molly’s hands softly. “I am grateful Molly.” He said, watching Molly’s eyes brimmed with tears again. “And John… John would’ve been too.” He added, as he thumbed away the tears from Molly’s eyes. He never waited for her reply, Sherlock stood up, buttoning off two from his shirt—turning his coat collar up—never looking back.

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing else left to say, but "I killed John Watson, again."


End file.
